


c-o-double-m-o-n

by aiineslin



Category: Narcos: Mexico (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: "who else made it out? walt?"they know the answer in his refusal to reply.
Kudos: 2





	c-o-double-m-o-n

**Author's Note:**

> more a writing exercise than anything to break my writing block  
> im.. holding off watching episode 10... idk man. idw to meet an ending to this season

The first cigarette he smokes when he returns to the safehouse feels like a lifeline.

The nicotine floods into his lungs, gives his fingers something to do, a ritualistic, _normal_ movement against the abnormality of this night. 

Sal follows him to his chair. Behind him, Daryl lingers.

“Walt,” Sal’s voice is faltering now. They know the answer, the last remainders of the taskforce Walt has assembled do; they see it in his refusal to reply, in the silence of the night – there will be no more stragglers dragging themselves to this shitty little house in the middle of the nowhere. “Who else made it out?”

He looks at Sal. In the half-darkness, he can just about make out the curve of Sal’s face, the pinch of his brows, the tension pulling his mouth into a straight line.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

(He hates Sal a little then, a flash of red-hot bitterness that fades away almost immediately, that he forced Walt to speak the reality into the dead air between them.)

*

“We can’t do anything else for them, Walt,” Sal had said, after. "You need to tell the brass. About the deals."

He had left Sal behind the border when he came to Washington on the fastest flight out of Mexico. The words that Sal said had followed him, landing like little stones in Walt's consciousness. They weigh down his heart, worry at his thoughts with sharp little teeth. The promises he had made, the deals he had cooked up between _them_ (Danilo, Amat, Ossie) under the shelter of dive bars and lonely streets, weigh around his neck.

He had given his word. His tongue feels heavy.

It is a hot day in Washington, it always is.

The air-conditioned waiting hall of the DEA headquarters takes some of the edge away. He dries out beneath the cold air, stares at the rows and rows of martyred faces that line the space between the flags. Kiki is almost dead centre; it is almost far too easy to pick out his photo now.

"Mr. Breslin," a voice pipes up behind him; he turns, a clerk looks at him. "They're waiting for you."

"Okay," he says. "Thanks."

He spares one last glance at Kiki.

Dead eyes stare straight ahead, sightlessly.

*

It goes almost as well as he expected. Which is to say, the administrator shits all over him and his deals, and he is left with nothing, nothing, nothing.

A headache has built up in the time he spent in the room caught between the two suits. (He is in a suit now too, isn't he? A cheaper suit, made out of a polyester blend, but still a suit.)

He speed-walks out of the headquarters at a brisk pace; tearing right past the wall of martyrs. He hears the suit following fast behind him, _clickclickclick_ goes the suit's expensive leather shoes.

When he bursts out into the heat and the brightness, he welcomes it. 

Under the sun, he lights a cigarette. Sweat trickles down the line of his neck, collecting beneath his collar. The poor material slides at his skin, disgustingly slick-smooth.

Beside him, the suit shifts, uncomfortable.

“Walt,” he says.

Walt turns, looks him in the eye. “There’s nothing you can say about this, sir.”

He falls quiet, and Walt looks up into the sun.

The white light sears into his eyes, and he dips his gaze down and away, blinking away grey spots.

He reaches up to the knot that throttles his throat, grazes his finger across it, and lets his hand fall away to his side. It bites against his throat when he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing against the tie.


End file.
